


Don't be...

by foggynite



Series: Let It Burn [3]
Category: Was Tun Wenn's Brennt? | What To Do In Case Of Fire (2001)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Post-Canon, tim moves on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 05:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30067224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggynite/pseuds/foggynite
Summary: Maik has a visitor, but Tim's the only one home to answer the door.
Relationships: Maik/Tim (Was Tun Wenn's Brennt?)
Series: Let It Burn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211987





	Don't be...

**Author's Note:**

> Written at some point between 2003 and 2005. I think. Don't quote me on that.
> 
> Probably won't make much sense without reading at least "Calamus" in this series.

Tim is in loose cotton sleep pants and nothing else. He's toying with some of the layouts Maik left for him on the glass dining table while he sips instant coffee from a black mug. 

He debates actually calling Maik to let him know his decision on the proposal but decides it can wait. Maik will be back soon anyway. The exec had to run into the office for a few hours, and Tim hates talking on phones.

He's arranging the shots in a semblance of order, sketching out his own ideas on a blank sheet of paper one-handed, when the door buzzer sounds and he startles. 

Cursing and grabbing for a napkin before his work is ruined by coffee, he frowns at the door when it buzzes again and wonders if he should bother answering. It's probably the doorman with the package Maik's been expecting, so Tim sets his dripping coffee mug down with a sigh and doesn't bother searching for a shirt.

It's not the doorman. Tim blinks at the old man standing in the hallway and has enough time to think he looks familiar before the man snaps at him.

"Who the hell're you?"

Expression neutral, Tim wishes he still had his coffee so he could lounge in the doorway properly.

"I could ask the same of you, old timer."

"I'm looking for Maik." 

The pinched look on the man's wrinkled face lets Tim know what he thinks of him, but Tim just shrugs. Let it be a power issue then. He isn't going to be the first one to cave.

"He's at work."

"He said he had today off." Spit out like it's Tim's fault Maik has clients that need to be pampered every day of the week.

"He did."

The old man frowns at Tim for a moment, then flaps a hand at him. "Well? Who the hell are you?"

Spending copious amounts of time around Maik and before that police stations, Tim has perfected the ability to look bored _and_ skeptical at the same time. His answer is short.

"Tim."

There's no recognition in the man's face. Instead, he glares at Tim even harder. "What are you doing in my son's apartment, _Tim_?"

Son. Ah. That's where Tim's seen him before. The picture on Maik's nightstand.

"Mr. Alberts?" Tim finally ventures as the man in question waits for his answer. 

The old man humphs and nods at him, but seems slightly less hostile. Probably because Maik has always kept his mother's surname, and not many of Maik's acquaintances know it. Those that do are a very small circle. At least, Tim assumes. He has yet to meet anyone else in it.

Standing back, he opens the door wider and waves the man in. Alberts enters with a suspicious frown and stops a few feet in, surveying the place. Tim suppresses a sigh and returns to his cooling coffee at the table. He could go upstairs and put on a shirt, but he honestly could care less what this man thinks of him.

The older man doesn't seem inclined to speak, so Tim picks up his pencil and continues sketching out his ideas-- crudely, but he and Maik would know what they meant. He pauses when Alberts looms over his shoulder, then resumes because damned if he's going to show any discomfort.

"You work with Maik?" Demanded gruffly. 

"Occasionally." 

His coffee is cold, he realizes as he swallows around a grimace. At least it's real coffee and not the crappy blends Maik always buys for the outrageous prices. He could be friendly and offer to get Alberts a mug, but he doesn't think the old man would go for it. Besides, he isn't feeling particularly nice at the moment.

The old man wanders around the apartment after that, poking at CDs and sneering at the shit Maik calls art on the walls. "You know when he's going to get back?"

"Soon, probably."

He could call Maik, but he doesn't want to bring up personal issues if he's out with clients. As far as Tim knows, Maik and his father aren't on the best of terms for all that they're speaking to each other again.

Finally tiring of pacing the lower rooms, Alberts comes to sit at the opposite end of the dining table from Tim. It's difficult to think of good locations for shots when his head's being stared at, so Tim looks up and meets the other man's eyes. He didn't really mean to encourage conversation, though.

"So how long have you known Maik?" Alberts' tone is off.

Tim ignores the last insinuation and answers simply, "A few years."

"He usually avoids letting me meet any of his... _friends._ "

The man harrumphs and Tim assumes that's his general response to things. He returns his attention to the lay outs and wishes he had just shut the door in the man's face. Or not opened it at all.

After fifteen minutes of Tim shuffling paper and Alberts breathing through his nose, the phone rings. Tim takes the opportunity to refresh his coffee as he answers, turning back on the electric kettle Maik bought grudgingly just for him.

"Hallo?" Tucking the receiver against his shoulder, he scoops instant granules into the old coffee.

"Order lunch." Maik's voice jokingly commands. "Anything you want. I'm starving and require sustenance."

"Do I sound like your maid?" Tim deadpans.

"I can buy you a uniform if you want."

"Pervert." There's a noise from the table in the other room. Tim turns away from the glaring eyes. "Besides, you have company."

"Who?" Tim can tell when Maik pauses to register the edge in his voice. "Ah, fuck, that was today. I forgot. Is he being a pain?"

"Something like that."

"He's right there."

The kettle is close enough to a boil for Tim to pour now. "Yeah." 

"I'm almost home. Try not to be too much of a dick, okay? Just make it through the next ten minutes without killing him."

Tim grunts noncommittally. Maik's voice is suddenly weary.

"Look, it shouldn't take too long to deal with him. Go ahead and order lunch for the three of us. He probably just wants money or something, so we'll get a meal in him and get him out the door."

"All right."

"Be right there."

Tim disconnects and focuses on stirring his drink. 

"Was that Maik?" The old man demands.

"He's on his way," Tim says over his shoulder, reaching for the stack of take-out menus Maik keeps by the phone. The part of him that holds doors open for old people makes him elaborate, "He said to order lunch. Would you like something?"

"Nothing greasy. And none of that foreign shit." 

Of course. Discarding most of the menus from the pile, Tim returns to the table. This time he offers the stack to Alberts with a bland expression. Not really a peace offering, but Tim's version of a temporary cease-fire. Contrary to popular opinion, he doesn't always enjoy tormenting people, not like Maik, and if Alberts will lay off the attitude until Maik arrives, Tim is willing to be polite.

Alberts takes the stack with another of his grunts and quickly flips through them. Pausing at one menu - a fancy deli Maik usually gets sandwiches from - he points out his choice, and Tim dials the number, assuming his previous seat at the other end of the table. He rattles off the order easily, telling the girl who picked up to charge it to Maik's account. Since Maik uses them for catering, he just pays off his account every month and Tim has no qualms about adding this to the tab.

Alberts is regarding him oddly when he disconnects, so Tim places the phone gently on the glass surface and begins gathering the portfolio together. 

He's not surprised when the old man clears his throat and asks gruffly, "So, you live here, or what?"

"No." Meeting his gaze evenly, Tim makes an effort to be civil but honest. "I have my own place. But I am here frequently."

"Ah." Alberts takes a breath, expression less guarded than when he arrived. "You said you worked with Maiky. You do all this ad stuff, then?"

He doesn't know the dynamics of Maik's relationship with his dad, and it's not like he has much experience himself, growing up never knowing his own. But he's beginning to realize some of the hostility might be protectiveness, and that doesn't rankle as much as he thought it would. 

"Technically, I'm a creative consultant for the firm. But I'm a photographer." He slides out one of his own pictures from the pile to show the man. "I usually work with Maik on a contract-by-contract basis, so I have time to do free-lance photography, too."

"Hmph." Another of those grunts, but this one sounds friendlier, so Tim doesn't take offense. "Thought he didn't go for those artsy types."

That surprises a laugh out of Tim before he can smother it, and now Alberts is looking at him like he's unhinged. 

"I'm hardly an artsy-type," Tim counters, tapping the portfolio to settle the papers in it. 

"Nah, nah. You don't look it." Alberts tone is speculative, crows feet crinkled around his eyes. "If anything, you look like some street punk with that hair."

And that's closer to the mark, but Tim doesn't know if the man's teasing or condemning, so he just shrugs and starts to move the portfolio to the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. 

If he was better at small talk, he'd steer the conversation away from himself, but his persuasive speaking skills work best on the opposite sex and men who have shown an obvious interest in him.

The sound of a key in the door saves him from further awkwardness, and he's the first thing Maik sees when he comes in the door. 

"Hey," Maik says with a genuine smile as he kicks the door shut behind him. "You wouldn't believe how heinous traffic was today. You ordered lunch, right? Good, I'm starving. The meeting with Jorkins ran over three hours. I was afraid I was going to have to start gnawing on my own arm for him to get the idea to wrap things up. I swear, the man's dense as a brick."

He doesn't know if it's significant that Maik gives his father the barest of acknowledgments as the lanky exec walks to place his briefcase on the counter next to Tim. All he knows is that Maik doesn't normally have any issues with draping himself over Tim, and now the other man doesn't hesitate to slide his arm over Tim's shoulders, pressing a casual kiss to his temple before breaking away to face the table. Tim keeps his stoic expression in place, crossing his arms in front of his still-bare chest.

“Pop," Maik says with an expansive gesture, rounding the table as the old man stands up. "Sorry to keep you waiting, I thought I'd be back by now. You and Tim introduced yourselves, right? You're looking better than the last time I saw you!"

A hearty hug, effusive and friendly, and calculated rambles meant to disarm and diffuse tension. It's all Maik's game face. His office persona, and not because he just got home from there. Tim's seen him greet new clients with as much, if not more sincerity, and he reminds himself that he doesn't know the first thing about their current relationship. All he knows of Maik's father was shared solemnly on drunken nights long ago and barely mentioned afterwards.

"Maiky," Alberts claps him on the back. "How're you doing, boy?"

"Fine. Great. Been busy with the company and everything. Did Tim order lunch for you?" He barely waits for Alberts to nod. "Good, good. From Greta's, right? Perfect. It should be here soon, then. Why don't you have a seat on the couch, and I'll get you something to drink. Your doctor told you to cut back on the coffee, right? I think we have some lemonade."

Tim has to admit, he's impressed with the way Maik ushers the old man to the living area, directing him to one end of the leather sofa with little room for protest. Heading to the kitchen before Maik can ask him to, Tim retrieves a glass from the cupboards and surveys the contents of the fridge. 

"We have ginger ale, too." He offers, and Alberts makes an assenting noise that Tim assumes is his cue to start pouring. 

Maik's fake grin turns grateful over his father's head.

"So, dad, tell me what you've been up to, huh?" Maik looks encouraging as he comes to the counter and takes the glass from Tim. "Still bowling on Fridays?"

"Not much. You know me. Been going down to the ring mostly, watching the boys fight. Old Weathers finally let his kid take over for him and lemme tell you, the place went to hell..."

Tim leaves Maik and Alberts sitting on the couch and slips up the stairs to the bedroom so he can pull on a shirt. He spends a few minutes debating whether to get completely dressed, but it's his only day off for the next seven and Alberts won't be here all day. Plus, he's stalling, because the sooner Maik can talk to his dad about whatever it is, the sooner the man will leave. 

The door buzzer decides for him, and he goes back down without changing his pants. If Alberts thinks anything of it, he doesn't react. He's too busy putting his wallet back in his jacket, and Tim hopes that means their business is concluded.

"Your coffee's too cold," Maik informs him as Tim reaches the table. He doesn't look directly at him. "And tastes terrible. What beans did you use?"

Tim smirks and keeps things normal, helping him unpack the delivery bags. "The instant ones."

Maik rolls his eyes and gets plates from the kitchen while Alberts slouches over to the table. The old man takes his sandwich with a frown, poking at the lettuce.

"There better not be pickles on this."

"You can just pick them off, dad," Maik says offhandedly, but Tim can see the edge behind his smile. Then Maik turns the focus to his own plate. "Ah, good. You got roast beef..."

They continue to talk about boxing throughout the meal, and Tim notices that both men have the habit of speaking around their mouthfuls of food. Now he knows where Maik got it from, at least. Other than that, their mannerisms are strikingly disparate. Maik talks with his hands, huge expansive gestures, while his father keeps his elbows tucked determinedly at his sides, hands still. There's a resemblance in their foreheads, the shape of their hairlines. A little around their mouths. Maik must have gotten most of his looks from his mother.

He eats as quickly as he can and starts gathering wrappers and trash while they talk. Maik and Alberts finish soon after, and they both wipe their mouths the same way after a meal. It's an endearing habit on Maik's part but doesn't look nearly so attractive on the old man.

Tim's in the kitchen throwing things away when Alberts announces he has places to be. Maik is all smiles, telling him they should do lunch again sometime soon.

"Tim." Alberts gives him a nod, and claps Maik on the shoulder one more time before disappearing out the door. 

Maik shuts it decisively behind him, hand resting on the dead bolt for a moment.

Not one to pry, Tim keeps clearing the table. When Maik's arms wrap around his torso and the other man leans into Tim's body, face buried wearily in his neck, Tim just puts down what he's picked up and leans back. Just being there.

"I need a shower," Maik finally mumbles into his shoulder. 

Tim nods, squeezing the arms around him once before twisting out of them. 

"C'mon. It's our day off," he says against Maik's lips, and pulls him towards the stairs.

He doesn't know much about fathers and sons, but he knows Maik and won't let the taller man brood. 

That's Tim's thing, anyway.


End file.
